


Emergency Response

by travels_in_time



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travels_in_time/pseuds/travels_in_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock each react differently when Lestrade is hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emergency Response

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at the Sherlock!BBC kinkmeme.
> 
>  _Prompt: I'd love to see a fic in which Lestrade's very badly injured (tortured, wounded, whatever), and Sherlock and John find him in some remote location, far from help. John automatically goes into Doctor!mode, trying to save him, but Sherlock automatically goes into Detective!mode, trying to find out from Lestrade (while the DI's still able to say) what's happened so he can stop who's responsible. The two clash in their "default" approaches as they work on the DI._
> 
>  _Additional note_ : I am not a medical expert. I am in fact making everything up. I apologize for any medical fail contained herein; I tried to be as vague as possible for that very reason. *g

Noises. Voices, running footsteps, shouting. Then hands. There were hands on him again, pulling at him, rolling him over. He tried to resist, tried to fight back, but the pain was too much and all he could do was gasp, instinctively clutching at the wound.

"No," someone said firmly, and his hand was pushed away. "Don't touch it. Lie still, let me have a look."

He opened his eyes, blinking against the light. The world swirled around him, blurred, but that voice...

"Who did this?" A different voice. Deeper, more demanding.

"Not now, Sherlock!" Hands prodding at him again. More gently now. Still far too much pain.

"Yes, of course, silly me. I'll just wait for the information until the perpetrators have had time to leave the country, shall I?"

Sherlock. The impatient voice belonged to Sherlock. Then the other man, the one with steady, gentle hands, was..."John?"

"Yeah, it's us, you're all right. Whoever did this, they're long gone. Be _still_ , will you?"

Only then did he realize that he'd been fighting to sit up. He stopped struggling, tried to relax.

"Sherlock, put this under his head. Easy--" Something soft was slipped under his head, cushioning it.

"John--" Sherlock again.

"Yeah, I see it." John's voice was tight. "Call for an ambulance."

Retreating footsteps, presumably Sherlock moving away to make the call.

"Don't move, now," John was saying matter-of-factly. "I'm cutting your shirt off so I can get to...oh, that's lovely, yes. Don't piss off the man with the knife, that should be your first rule of operation."

He tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a wheeze. "He...started it."

John laid a hand on his chest. "Deep breath. And again."

It didn't feel right. But it wouldn't, would it? He'd been stabbed. Breathing was bound to be harder for a while. He was still doing it, that was the important bit.

The hand on his chest wasn't as warm as it should have been. He looked down. Gloves. John was a professional, he'd put on gloves as a matter of course. Especially when there was blood. Blood everywhere, soaking the sleeve of the discarded shirt, welling up again and dripping down towards John's hands--

"Greg. Greg, look up." A hand on his chin, tilting his head up. "Focus on something else. Breathe."

He closed his eyes. Took a breath. Something definitely not right there. Took another. Focused on Sherlock's footsteps, coming closer again.

"The ambulance should be here in approximately ten minutes," Sherlock reported.

"All right. Greg, I'm going to go ahead and clean this up, get it bandaged. Lucky for you I brought my medical bag."

"It wasn't luck at all," Sherlock snapped. "When he texted, he asked--" He stopped abruptly, and Lestrade sensed Sherlock's attention swinging towards him. "You said that John should bring his kit. But you weren't hurt at the time. Why did you say that? You were meeting someone, you must have suspected that they might need medical attention. It's unlikely that someone would arrange a meeting simply to attack you, there are far more efficient ways that don't involve forewarning your victim. So it was someone else. Someone you weren't expecting met you both here, attacked you, and..."

From the fading sound of his voice, he'd spun round and dashed off somewhere.

John seemed to be taking no notice of Sherlock, still working, sponging something cold and wet against Lestrade's skin. Lestrade flinched as it came in contact with his wound. "Sorry," John said sympathetically, his hands never wavering.

Quick footsteps announced Sherlock's return. "John, Terrence Bradshaw is behind that wall. More accurately, his body. It appears that he's been stabbed to death."

"Terrence--the junkie?"

"How is Bradshaw involved in this?" Sherlock's voice was coming from lower down now. Lestrade opened his eyes again, made out a dark blur. Sherlock was squatting in front of him, staring at him intently. "Who attacked the two of you? There were at least three people, judging by--"

"No talking," John said firmly. "Disinfectant now. Deep breath...and out." The sting hit as Lestrade breathed out, and he jerked involuntarily. "Easy." John's tone was soothing. "Once more." This time the sting went deeper, burning, and he couldn't help the gasp. That was a mistake. He fought for breath that wouldn't come.

"Easy," John said again. "Easy! Sherlock, lift him--just a bit, there--Greg, slowly. Breathe. Come on. That's it. All right, let him down again--" And he was carefully lowered to the ground, dizzy and telling himself desperately not to panic, that panicking would only make things worse.

"I need a name," Sherlock insisted. "If you don't know the name, tell me about the case. Bradshaw was a purse-snatcher, you wouldn't have called us for that. Why were you here?"

"Sherlock!" John's voice was sharp. "Leave him alone! I'm working here."

"As am I." His vision was too blurry to see, but he could imagine the glare Sherlock was leveling at John.

"Your case doesn't come before my patient." Now, that was interesting. Gauze and bandages on his wound, John still steady and reassuring, but a core of steel behind those words.

He didn't need them fighting. Couldn't John see what Sherlock was trying to do?

"I'm not."

John's hands paused in their work, and he sensed more than saw John looking down at him. "You're not what?"

"Not very patient."

"No, well, that makes two of you." John fixed adhesive in place and patted him. "There, that's done."

"He's a policeman, John, he understands the necessity of interviewing a witness."

"It can wait."

"It can't. Judging by the amount of blood lost, the increasing glassiness of his pupils and the difficulty of his breathing, he will lose consciousness in approximately--"

"He will _not._ " He'd never heard that particular tone in John's voice before. "He'll be fine if he'll just stay quiet."

"John. Tell me." It was getting harder to speak, he noticed. He had to stay calm.

"Stop talking," John said automatically, and took a deep breath. "You have at least one broken rib. Possible concussion. The stab wound, as you may have noticed. You lost a lot of blood but the bleeding's contained now."

"And."

"I don't know if it was the knife or the broken rib," John said reluctantly. "But you've got a collapsed lung. It's fine, the ambulance will have oxygen and you'll be all right. But you have to stay calm and keep breathing right now. Discuss the case later."

"Later whoever did this will have got away!" Frustration was thick in Sherlock's voice. He understood it, knew what it felt like to be helpless in the face of a victim's pain. Was he a victim now? That was a disconcerting thought. He was a policeman. A policeman who wasn't being allowed to discuss his own case.

"It's...all right."

"No, it is damn well _not_ all right!" John was dividing his glare between the two of them impartially now.

"John." Sherlock's hand was gripping his, Lestrade noted with some surprise. He wondered when that had happened. "You've done what you do. Please allow me to do what I do."

John looked at him for a long moment. His voice, when he answered, was slightly calmer. "You deduce, that's what you do. You can do that without involving him."

"I can't theorize with no data," Sherlock snapped. "I need something to go on. Lestrade?"

He thought carefully, trying to waste as few words as possible. "Bradshaw...in withdrawal. Called me. Info on...jewelry thefts." He had to stop, fighting for breath.

"That's enough," John said urgently. His fingers were wrapped around Lestrade's other wrist. Monitoring his pulse, he thought hazily.

"Jewelry thefts," Sherlock repeated. "Where the jewels were being swapped for fakes. You told me about those last week. Then Bradshaw called you--but he couldn't have been connected--" His voice rose, and Lestrade had to close his eyes again as Sherlock stood up abruptly, the sudden motion making him dizzy. "Of course! Bradshaw is a coward, he steals handbags from little old ladies. He found out something about his supplier that scared him, scared him enough to stop the drugs--at least temporarily. He called you. It was urgent, it must have been, you would have waited for backup if you hadn't believed his life was in danger. Possibly they'd attacked him already and that's why you wanted John's kit. It had something to do with the jewelry thefts, but it's not as simple as his supplier committing the thefts, or you'd have said so already..."

He was in full stream-of-consciousness flow now, striding back and forth, gesturing wildly. He'd hit on the connection sooner or later, Lestrade knew. John was smiling a bit ruefully at him. "Sorry. You know how he is. I think this is his way of trying to help you."

"I know."

John straightened suddenly. "I hear sirens. The ambulance is here. You're going to be all right."

He grinned up at John. "Never...doubted it." He took a couple more breaths. Slowly, not quite enough air, don't panic. "Tell Sherlock." Another breath. "Man who stabbed me. Snake tattoo...left hand."

John was nodding. "He'll figure it out. We'll find him, Greg, I promise." For a moment the steel was back in his voice, and Lestrade almost felt sorry for the man who had killed poor Terrence and attempted to kill him. Almost.

Then he was surrounded by emergency personnel and being poked and prodded and injected and fitted with an oxygen mask, and the feeling passed quickly enough.


End file.
